The Talk
by TheWheelWeaves
Summary: Sherlock and Rose discuss something that you were probably wondering about too. Rated M for safety. A story that follows sometime after Danger Night in the This Rose is Extra series.


**As a present from me to you on the occasion of my birthday, I thought I would answer a question that you're... probably asking.**

**All the thanks in the world to my Hubby who's my copy-editor and to WhoLockGal who is brilliant and helped this slightly awkward story only be awkward in the ****_right_**** ways.**

**Reviews make for great birthday presents, by the way!**

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A Jane Austen movie played in Rose's flat ignored by the two people on the sofa. Sherlock Holmes and Rose Tyler had found better entertainment.

While Elizabeth Bennet wittered on the screen about Messrs. Wickham, Bingley and Darcy, Sherlock found the sight of Rose Tyler stretched out half beneath him, flushed and dark-eyed, an appealing counterpoint to the talk of female virtue from the film. He swooped in for another taste of her mouth while the fingers of his right hand found their way underneath the hem of her jumper to the silk-smooth warmth of her skin. His clever fingers drew alchemical symbols against her stomach and words of affection, devotion and fidelity- vows that his tongue was not yet ready to speak, but reiterated silently against the smooth skin of her throat.

His fingers skated higher while his mouth sought lower. His fingertips danced up her ribs and she squirmed delightfully when he found a ticklish spot. He catalogued the location for future reference (though whether to avoid or seek out again, he was not entirely certain). She moaned when his teeth found the join of her shoulder and neck and another note was added to Sherlock's mental file.

Rose's hands were not idle, skating over his chest, across his hips and up his back rubbing slow, maddening circles on his shoulders and down his spine. When Sherlock's mouth found a spot that she particularly liked, one hand speared into his hair, clutching and pulling just slightly. The pleasure-pain of the movement brought a low growl from Sherlock- an out-of-control, animalistic sound as his mouth returned to hers- rougher and more demanding than before. His fingers smoothed down her stomach, over her hips to the waistband of her jeans, and he had just brushed the button closure when Rose's hand was suddenly no longer in his hair but at his wrist, pulling his hand away. She eased out of the kiss then, and moved away. Not far as she was still half-covered by his weight, but enough to make her intentions clear.

Sherlock sighed. It was always this way- there was a line that Rose would not cross, and he wasn't sure if it was him, or it was her, or it was both of them. He'd never asked, but he'd attempted to deduce. She always responded to him passionately and with approval up to a certain point, and that point never changed. She never seemed angry with him. She never said anything, not even 'stop.' She simply moved his hands away from her, moved away from him- usually far enough away that they could both collect themselves- then she would return, affectionate and friendly as ever. She would cuddle with him, kiss him, but always she would keep things a bit cooler than they had been.

Sherlock knew the next step in the dance was for him to move away from her and for Rose to leave for a few minutes, giving both of them a chance to recover. He had always followed her lead. He did not do relationships and had not had sex since he was a teenager. He'd never considered the act a necessity as others tended to. He understood the biological imperative to procreate (though he thought the instinct toward progeny was missing in himself). He understood the chemical reactions that produced arousal when one was around someone with whom one shared an attraction. He even enjoyed the physical aspects of sex, as he remembered.

Rose Tyler excited his mind and inflamed his body, and he found that he wanted her more than he had thought he was capable of wanting another person. However, he knew that if she wanted to stop, he would stop. He always had before.

This time, however, he didn't quite follow exactly the same steps. He did not try to kiss her again, but he left his hand (on top of her jumper now) spanning her abdomen. He stayed cuddled up to her and asked what he should have known he wouldn't be able to deduce.

"Why not?"

Rose smiled. She'd expected this question weeks back. They were hardly teenagers, necking every chance they could get, but things had become more heated more often in the months that they had been dating. He'd been hesitant- frankly he'd been an awkward kisser the first few times they had tried, but he was a very fast learner and had become a master after a few practices. She could tell that his experience was limited, but he was an eager student, though he always followed her lead and she always stopped them.

She knew he noticed- Sherlock Holmes noticed everything- but he had never asked. Part of it, she knew, was his inherent distaste for discussing anything so crass as _sex_ with anyone. There was also the fact that he was wise enough to know not to push a girl who had said 'no.' And finally, there was the fact that Sherlock Holmes never liked to admit that he didn't know something. He would continue to observe a thing until he understood it.

This, however, was not his area, and he had finally given in to curiosity.

Rose brushed her fingertips over his cheek in an affectionate move. Then she met his eyes before dropping her bomb. "Can you tell me about The Woman?" Rose asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock asked, finally moving off of her, putting some distance between them.

"Or... can you tell me why your hands shake sometimes?" Rose queried, sitting up herself and moving to sit tailor-style facing him from the other end of the couch.

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment. "You already know all the pertinent data about those two subjects," he said coolly, having read the fact in her eyes. He'd known she knew of at least The Woman's existence, though not about the other.

"Not all, no. But much of it, yeah."

"So why ask?"

"Because _you_ never told me, Sherlock."

"And what difference should _that_ make if you have the data anyway?"

Rose shook her head. "No," she said, softly. "You can pretend you're that man- the one who is too far above those human emotions to understand them- and you'd like to believe that you are, but you're not. I know you're not."

"You don't know anything..."

"Sherlock," Rose said in a sharp voice, cutting him off. "If you finish that sentence the way that I think you plan to, you can leave now, and you can forget seeing me again. If you're going to deny that I've gotten to know you at all, much less far better than you expected me to, then we can call this done. I won't have someone who lies to me. Not like that."

Sherlock looked at her carefully. She was serious- if he told her that she didn't know anything about him, she would make him leave. He knew it wasn't true- it frightened him sometimes how well she knew him. He also knew that it would be throwing away one of the most important relationships in his life, possibly both. John was very fond of Rose- he said that she was 'good for' Sherlock. John would not be impressed if things ended with Rose, particularly if it were Sherlock's fault. Even more so if it came at the fault of Sherlock's pride.

"You know I don't understand. You have to explain." It was said coolly, and he hoped that it didn't ruin everything, but it was the best he could manage. He was trying to force rage and fear and rejection into a box in his mind and they were desperately trying to make an escape to run riot through him. He exerted all of his mental control to remain aloof.

"It's just... Sherlock, you know everything about me. Everything that matters," Rose said, eyes glowing with emotion. "You know that I chase aliens for a living, and about the other universe and about my Mum and Mickey and about... you know about the Doctor. All of my secrets. Anything you don't know is benign. Mundane. But really, I don't know any of your secrets."

"You know more about me than anyone, save John."

Rose shook her head. "I know who you are right now. I know how you take your tea and your coffee. I know your favorite colour is purple though you'd never admit it. I know that sometimes you hate that your hair is so curly and unmanageable, but you love it when I run my fingers through it. I know that you like Jasmine noodles when we order Chinese and extra cheese and sausage when we order pizza. I know that you put extra salt on your chips but hate vinegar. I know the you of this moment."

"This moment is all that matters."

"Don't be daft," Rose said, in irritation. "You know better than that. A life... a person is an amalgam of experiences from birth to death. I may know who you are right now, but I don't know how you feel about Irene Adler, and I don't know what to say to you when your hands shake. Don't you think those things might matter to me? Those parts of your past might make a difference to who you are now?"

Sherlock looked at her for a long moment. He could see why they might, but he was afraid to talk about them. Afraid that, if he explained, she would run. Afraid to lose her to his mistakes.

Rose continued. "There are simpler things too that I want to know. I don't know what you were like as a child. I don't know who your first kiss was, or what you wanted to be when you grew up before you decided on being a detective. So you have me, all of me, but I don't have any of you. And I've been here before, Sherlock, in an uneven relationship, where I was forced to trust but not be trusted."

"You think I don't trust you?" Sherlock was shocked. Save for John, there was no one he trusted more.

"I know you trust me at your back when there are enemies behind you. You'd trust me with your life, Sherlock, but you won't trust me with your self."

Sherlock sat quiet for a few moments and watched as Rose sat and watched him. He ran his eyes over her face- round cheeks still flushed from their recent activities. Over-wide mouth over slightly too-large teeth and a pink tongue that sometimes peeped out and could drive him to distraction. Dark eyebrows, dark eyelashes and dark eyes that held everything that he believed in. Where John forced him to be better (dragged him kicking and screaming, sometimes), Rose made him _want_ to be better.

"I would trust you with... with anything."

"Tell me about The Woman," Rose said, softly.

"Irene. Her name was Irene."

Rose listened to the way Sherlock said the other woman's name. He had a way of rolling the round vowels of her name over his tongue like a fine wine. Irene's name was different. He spoke it like it was a word in an unfamiliar language with hidden, indecipherable meaning.

"She was," Sherlock continued, "very beautiful. Beautiful like a viper is beautiful or broken glass, or a diamond. On the outside she shone but inside she was all sharp edges and venom and chaos. The first time I saw her, she came into the room naked."

Rose's eyes widened.

"It was a ploy, you see. Nothing to read if there were no clothes. It threw me off. I couldn't get anything from her. Knowing women a bit better now, I can see the things I missed then- she hadn't applied her own makeup, and her hair was perfectly coiffed indicating that she had expected me. I know now that she did, of course- she was working for James Moriarty. She got the best of me though. I wanted her. She was so clever, so quick, so beautiful, and I wanted her- not to claim, but simply to have had. She would never consent to be with one man, even one to whom she was attracted, because that wasn't who she was, but I wanted my chance. She exploited that in me. Eventually I discovered that she wanted me as well, and I exploited that in her. Really, we probably deserved each other- manipulative, dangerous, overly-clever people who would spend their lives trying to prove the other stupid."

"Mycroft said that she is dead," Rose said. He'd told her in a jeering way, claiming that it was the only reason that Sherlock would even consider her.

"Mycroft thinks so. He doesn't know that I know that though."

"Oh god... I'm so sorry," Rose cried in horror. Then she put together what Sherlock said. "Mycroft only thinks she's dead?"

"Yes," Sherlock's voice held no trace of emotion. "She is not dead. I saved her life."

"You must have loved her very much." It was not a question. She stated it as a fact. A fact that held not judgment or censure, simply a statement, like any statement she might ever make.

"No," Sherlock said, just as surely. "It was another opportunity for me to prove how clever I was. I was saving her, yes, but I was getting one over on Mycroft."

"You're glad that she's alive though."

Sherlock met her eyes. No lies. No half-truths. She would know. "Yes," he said, and the sorrow in her eyes made it one of the hardest things that he had ever said.

"Can you tell me something, Sherlock?"

"Anything, Rose Tyler."

"If she arrived at Baker Street tomorrow..." Rose trailed off, uncertain how to pose the question that she needed an honest answer to.

"If she reappeared in my life and still wanted me, you're asking whether I would... break faith with you in favor of her?"

Rose smiled slightly. The idea of him using such an archaic term seemed so right. "Yes, I suppose that's what I'm asking. You think of her sometimes. She impressed you, got into your head. She's beautiful and accomplished. She got the better of you."

"Yes she did," Sherlock said, and met her eyes. Silver and gold locked together. "I would never do that to you. The things I felt for Irene were... were like a puppy at the heels of his mistress. That's certainly how she saw me. She did not see me as a person, not really, but an asset to be exploited- either my mind or my body. When you look at me, you see a man and, moreover, you see a good man. That is something that I never thought anyone could look at me and see. And you, Rose Tyler, you make me believe that you're right and I'm the one who is wrong. That the way you see me is accurate. You make me more than I thought I was. I need you."

Rose's eyes filled with tears. She did not allow them to fall, but she did move forward on the couch- close enough to touch him. She took his hands in hers and pressed a kiss to the center of each palm.

Sherlock lifted those hands and cupped her face in them. "How could you believe otherwise?" he asked, voice a low rumble that seemed to resound in her chest.

"It wouldn't be the first time," Rose said, and Sherlock watched the light in her eyes dim as she thought backwards to another time and another man.

"What...?"

"No, it's your turn to tell stories. I'll tell mine later. Tell me why your hands shake," she said quietly.

Sherlock sighed- he would have that story from her. And he thought he might wring the neck of the man who had hurt her. But now it was his confession- he owed her that. "I am not a strong man, Rose Tyler," he began.

Rose opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head, silencing her. "No, I'm not. I am a stubborn man, and a proud man, but I am not a strong man. I am extremely susceptible to any substance that quiets my mind, even for a brief time. Alcohol, nicotine... you." He met her eyes, and she saw the truth in his eyes- her presence could calm him, and she felt proud. "Mostly, however, it has been opiates. Opium, Morphia, Heroin. Shortly after university, I had to be hospitalized. Four times since I was 18, I have been in Rehab. It has been five years since my last stint. I am clean now simply because I am too stubborn and proud to break my record."

"I believe it's more than that," Rose said softly. "You were clean before John, but now you stay that way for him- because he believes that you're brilliant, and you'll never be as brilliant if you give in."

"And you?" Sherlock asked. This was, for some reason, desperately important. He had to know.

"I believe that you are the strongest man I know," Rose said softly, looking into his eyes. "And I believe that you can stay clean."

"If you believe it, then it is true, Rose. So long as you believe it, I will." His eyes swore to hers and his heart believed that, if anything could keep him sober, it was her.

They sat quiet for a few moments longer. The movie had finished some time before and the music from the title screen played on a loop in the background, though they both ignored it. Sherlock's hands remained in Rose's and her thumbs drew circles over his palms.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. "So… what does this mean?"

Rose looked her question at him.

"Where do we go from here… exactly?"

"Not to bed," Rose said half a joke.

Sherlock looked taken aback. "Is it... do you not want... have I..." He trailed off.

"Whatever you're thinking, no. I want you, Sherlock. I want you very much."

"And I want you, Rose Tyler. I admit that I do not really know… much about this sort of thing, but it is my observation that it is… unusual for people our age to wait so long before… becoming physically intimate."

Rose laughed as Sherlock stumbled over words for concepts about which she knew that he never really spoke. The moment the sound escaped her lips, however, she knew it was a mistake. She could see the hurt in his eyes.

The rejection that had dissipated in the face of Rose's desire to have him talk suddenly reared its head again in Sherlock's mind. He fought it back- had she not just said that she wanted him? For some reason, however, he was suddenly reminded that Rose's last partner had been a centuries-old alien with untold experience and untold knowledge.

"I won't measure up," Sherlock said with sudden venom. He often resented the Doctor for having had Rose's love and devotion first, but he had never _hated_ the alien quite like he did now.

"Measure up to what?" Rose asked, genuinely confused.

"The Doctor," Sherlock said, the venom still dripping from his voice?

"What about him?"

"Your last lover, the last Time Lord, all of time and space..."

"Wait, wait, wait," Rose said, cutting off Sherlock's rant. "The Doctor and I were never like that. Mickey and I told you that the first day we met you. Most important person in my life, but no sex?"

Sherlock recalled the conversation perfectly- he recalled every conversation perfectly, particularly those that involved Rose. He had never quite connected it all together, however.

"You were with him for two years though... and you loved him..."

"For about a year and 364 days, yes, but love and sex are different things."

"So you and he never..."

"Never."

"So..." Sherlock wasn't sure how to ask this question without being crass. "How long has it been?"

"I haven't had sex with anyone since... well, I guess Mick was the last person, before I met the Doctor. Sherlock, it's been seven, nearly eight years for me. For one thing, that's kind of a long time. I've learned to think past my sex drive."

Sherlock nodded. He could understand that.

Rose continued, "for another, well..."

"What?"

"Look, Sherlock, sex is easy. It's just physical. It's just bodies and motion and physics. If you put the variables in the right places, you'll get your result, yeah? But there are things that make a relationship that are so much more difficult: duty and fidelity and... and love. Those things aren't _necessary_ for sex per se, but... well... they help. And, like I say, they're difficult. And... well... we're not really there yet. I think that sex... well... it messes with those things because it is so easy to get right, so if you're getting that right you start to think you're getting the other things right and you aren't."

Sherlock merely watched her and she watched him, trying to determine if he was understanding.

Finally she sighed and tried again. "I don't think that we should have sex until our relationship is on firm footing. Until we trust each other. Until... well... until we're certain of each other. That's going to take some time." Rose took a long breath. "And... there are things that need to be said. Things that I don't think we're... either of us... ready to say yet."

"They need to be said?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," she said, quietly. "Yeah, I think they do. Because you can know them, but saying the words takes courage, and if you can't do it... well... then you're not ready. That okay?"

Sherlock had never taken much joy in not knowing. He preferred to know. To understand. To analyze and dissect and examine. This thing with Rose, however, was a mystery and, like any mystery, Sherlock wanted to solve it. There was pleasure in the solving, however, and he found that he liked the idea of stretching it out. Allowing the uncertainty and not-knowing to linger for a while longer, tempting him to unravel it, but not quite doing it.

"All right. We'll take it slow. We've got all the time we want, no need to rush. You want to know about me, and I want to know about you." This was a confession that Sherlock had not thought to make. "I want to know about the Doctor. About the universe. About your time among the stars, but also your time on Earth. Who was Rose Tyler before she saw the stars?"

Rose smiled. To have someone with as limited a lifetime as her own tell her that time was not of the essence... it was everything that she needed to hear.

"Rose Tyler, shop girl?" she asked with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock turned his hand over in hers and brought her knuckles to his lips. "Rose Tyler, shop girl. Rose Tyler little girl. Rose Tyler's first love, and Rose Tyler's favorite Christmas present."

"Red bicycle," Rose stated, without hesitation. "I was 12."

Sherlock smiled. "I got a puppy when I was three. I wanted to be a pirate, so I named him Redbeard. He was put down when I was 12."

Rose moved to settle herself into Sherlock's lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder. While the title screen of the DVD continued to play, the two of them talked long into the evening.


End file.
